From Rags to Riches
by Celtic Quill
Summary: Can a boy known as "Homeless Brett" find wealth in an unexpected place?


This is my headcanon for Brett. Most of it focuses on season four's premiere and his audition - what led him to it and what happened afterward. There's also a scene from the season two episode "The Substitute," and my headcanon with that.

This was something I couldn't _not _write. I don't know why, but "Homeless Brett" (or I guess "Stoner Brett" now - jeez, _Glee_, can't you get _anything _right? :P ) greatly intrigues me. This is written half-seriously, half-tongue-in-cheek, LOL. I hope you guys enjoy! I had a lot of fun writing it. :D

I already posted this to my Tumblr account a while ago, so you might have seen it there, but I wanted to post it here. Please leave a review to let me know what you think!

* * *

This was it.

The moment Brett had been waiting for.

All summer, he'd practiced – vocal warm-ups, dance steps, how to walk with a swagger in his step that defied the insecurities he felt within. He summoned confidence and courage, and after a while, after days and days of practice, he actually felt…_good_. Smiles came quicker to his face, bringing a sparkle to his eyes. There was a feeling inside of him, something buzzing and warm and _alive_, something that told him that maybe he was about to come out on top for once in his sorry life.

Brett had always wanted to be a part of the Glee Club. He just never had the nerve until now. It was a funny thing, bravery. How you can go years and years without a lick of it, but the second it shows up within arm's length, you'll leap forward and latch onto it and never, ever let go. Brett felt brave for the first time he could remember, and it was the most thrilling and ironically terrifying sensation, zipping through his veins like a freshly charged battery.

At night, these hopes seeped into his dreams, providing a Technicolor splash to his usually bleak subconscious. He dreamt of walking onto that stage, seizing the microphone, and pouring out his heart and soul through song. He dreamt of applause, of cheers and whistles, of a standing ovation – all for him.

And Kurt Hummel.

He always dreamt of Kurt Hummel. Dreamt of that well-coiffed, regal boy with the impish grin and penchant for wearing designer clothes that Brett could only wonder what it would be like to afford.

In Brett's dreams, Kurt cheered loudest of all.

Brett recalled a defining moment back in his sophomore year and Kurt's junior year: The two had had English class together. Brett had been high, as he'd almost always been back then, because the drugs bled away the sharp edges of his brain until he could only think comfortably mushy thoughts. Living in a fog was so much better than living in the reality of being poor and having very little friends.

Their substitute teacher had been performing a flashy, colorful song-and-dance routine. Brett had felt strangely exhilarated watching it, amused by the show but also undergoing a mix of nerves and excitement toward being so close to Kurt.

Much like how the blonde woman, Ms. Holliday's, voice had swelled into a crescendo during her song's chorus, Brett's butterflies had risen up within him until hitting fever-pitch; Kurt looked so handsome that day, dressed in this gorgeous red leather jacket. And he smelled so good, like expensive cologne.

For all of the school year, Brett had been unable to muster the courage to say a single word to Kurt besides the occasional mumble of a "hello" on his part that Kurt would barely even acknowledge, save for maybe a short nod of his head. But that day, Brett had been unable to go through the torture anymore; he was going to make his move now, damn it, whether it worked out or not. Living in a perpetual state of 'maybe he likes me; maybe he doesn't' was eating Brett alive from the inside-out.

So he asked Kurt, the words peppered with breathless chuckles that were more from nerves than from mirth: "Are you on anything?" His heart squeezed when his eyes graced the taller, beautiful boy's profile. "'Cause this is trippy."

There! He'd done it! He'd _finally_ spoken more than one word to the elusive Kurt Hummel. The worst was over, right?

Wrong.

Brett never could have prepared himself for what Kurt's response would be.

"You smell homeless, Brett," he said, words weighted with distaste and disapproval. Each syllable cut deeper into Brett's chest, until finally the last emphasized word slashed right into his heart. "_Homeless._"

Every part of Brett froze: the smile on his face, his hunched shoulders, the butterflies in his belly. He smelled homeless? Oh God. He smelled _homeless_, because he was poor, and he was undesirable, and Kurt didn't like him.

There was no 'maybe he likes me; maybe he doesn't' anymore. It was confirmed, a verified seal of YOU ARE NOT WORTHY stamped right onto Brett's forehead.

_He doesn't,_ Brett thought. _Kurt doesn't like me._

Brett still felt a terrible ache inside his chest whenever he thought back to that day. But now it was more than a year later. Kurt had already graduated, but rumors floating around town (well, more like, the Wall posts Brett had stalked on Facebook between Kurt and his incredibly lucky boyfriend, Blaine Anderson) claimed that Kurt was going to be back at McKinley for this year's Glee Club try-outs.

And Brett knew, with reinvigorated hope, that this was his chance.

This was his opportunity to prove himself to Kurt, prove himself to all of the talented Glee Club members. The name of the club was even 'New Directions,' and if that weren't a telling sign, than Brett didn't know _what _was.

So, he had poured blood, sweat, and even the occasional tears into practicing for his audition. He knew that Glee Club was all about being true to who you are, to not changing yourself for anybody. He respected that about them (even if sometimes they seemed hypocritical, to be honest). He respected that about _Kurt_.

And now, Kurt and everybody else were going to respect that about him, too.

In order to be true to his self, Brett knew he needed to go with a rap song. He'd always loved rap – the infectious beats, the care-not attitude, the way his hips automatically swayed to the rhythm. Rap didn't take anybody's shit – it just _was_. And Brett thought that was a new attitude for him to adapt for his too-caring self.

He'd written his audition rap all by his self. He couldn't count how many hours he'd spent perfecting it, even going through a rhyming dictionary to make sure the beat flowed perfectly. Because this _needed _to be perfect.

For once in Brett's life, _something_ needed to be perfect.

His very soul was poured into those lyrics. Each word, each beat, matched the pounding of his heart, as if the rap were ingrained into his being.

And now was the day. Audition day.

It was time.

Time to try-out for New Directions. To try-out for Kurt. To try-out and prove to his self that he's not such a loser after all, that being poor in monetary value doesn't mean you can't be rich in other venues.

All his life, Brett had been searching for a place to belong, and now he thought he could finally find his home in the Glee Club.

He had planned on doing the audition sober. But there was a problem with riding it all on one performance – he was nervous as hell. All his bravery flew out the window, like a frenzied animal leaping for safety from a burning building. He was even more nervous than he'd been when talking to Kurt back in English class that one fateful day.

So, in order to take the edge off, Brett had gotten high the morning of his audition. So high, in fact, that he'd accidentally written 'Stoner Brett' on the audition sheet. In the near future, Brett would look back on that error and mentally kick his self, cheeks flaming red that he'd pegged himself as the drug-dependent loser that Kurt had always thought he was, when really Brett hadn't gotten high all summer. He'd just needed a rush of confidence, and since he hadn't been feeling all that great that morning, the drugs had helped him slip into a state of artificial but prevalent swagger.

And now, it was time. Finally, after an entire summer of waiting, his moment was here.

"Brett," Kurt Hummel's soft, angelic voice called through a microphone. "We're ready for you."

Brett's heart soared at the way Kurt had said his name. There was no contempt, simply…curiosity. Okay, and maybe a _little _bit of skepticism, but whatever. Kurt had said his name!

Brett walked onto the stage and took the lone microphone. He felt…fuzzy. But in a good way. High in that way where nothing could harm him. He had this; he was going to prove himself to everyone.

"Hi," he said, eyes sweeping the small crowd and locking onto Kurt. The boy had gotten even _more _gorgeous over the summer, if that were even possible. "I'm Stoner Brett." (Later, Brett would face-palm his forehead when he remembered how he'd actually, _really _called himself that in front of everybody. In front of _Kurt.)_

"And this is 'Busters Get Popped,'" Brett said, taking the microphone from the stand as his pre-recorded backing track began playing from the speakers.

He took a deep breath before launching into his rap, letting the rhythm work through his limbs, letting the words tumble effortlessly from his mouth.

"_Busters get popped; busters get popped," _he rapped, with his eyes closed, just him and the music. "_Got my mind on my money; money on my mind."_

At first, it was magical.

It was everything he could have hoped for, this feeling of standing on a stage, of actually being in the spotlight. He felt like he belonged, like he was born to do this, to perform in front of these potential friends (and maybe even one potential _boy_friend).

But then he opened his eyes.

And all his hopes and dreams and building confidence crashed down around him.

Because everyone was staring at him in a way that made Brett feel about two inches tall.

Mr. Schuester's eyes were widened in incredulity as his gaze swiveled from student to student. Tina Cohen-Chang shook her head back and forth, as if bemoaning Brett's very existence. Blaine Anderson looked disappointed, as if he'd been rooting for Brett and was now letdown.

And Kurt.

Oh God, and _Kurt_.

His facial expression was the visual equivalent of his tone from when he'd insulted Brett two years ago. And with it brought back all those cutting emotions.

But like a champ, Brett went on. He had to go on, had to finish his audition, his heart's song, if not for them than for himself.

"_Sippin' on a '40 while I'm pushin' on the grind," _he continued, and _thank the Lord_, there was his small saving grace in one Brittany Pierce.

The blonde cheerleader had always been nice to him, and now she was actually dancing along to his music, feeling the groove and getting into it. If not for her, Brett probably would've ended up dropping his microphone to the floor of the stage before running off in humiliation. Brittany's acceptance was like a lifejacket thrown to him while he was trying not to drown.

"_Feel the pain, the game." _It was almost over. His moment in the spotlight – which had turned out not to be so spectacular or bright after all – was almost over. Just one verse left; Brett gave it his all, hoping to end on a high note (no pun intended). "_Yeah, Lil' Wayne, Lil' Wayne."_

Mr. Schue's mouth parted open in scornful disbelief. He looked like he didn't have time to deal with someone as stupid as Brett. And that's exactly how Brett felt: _stupid_.

Foolish for ever believing that New Directions would accept him as one of their own. He should have known their paths would never cross with a roadblock like him.

"Um, thank you, Brett," Kurt said into the judging table's microphone after a heavy moment of stunned silence from everyone. "We'll get back to you." And then Kurt's eyes were turning full attention to Blaine, and he was whispering in his boyfriend's ear, and Blaine was nodding with a sad sort of agreement.

Brett didn't even have the heart to say a 'thanks' for letting him audition. He put the microphone back in the stand, which felt colder and heavier than ever. Then, on leaden feet, he shuffled off the stage and back behind the curtains where the rest of the people were waiting to audition.

As Brett slipped out the back door leading from the auditorium and into a hallway, he heard the sounds of Techno music blaring from the stage speakers as some girl named "De'wanda Umber" proceeded with her audition.

Brett wished her luck, figuring she would need it with that tough crowd.

Or maybe it wasn't a tough crowd that was his problem. Maybe, even though Brett had given it his all and then some, he just hadn't been worthy.

Maybe sometimes even your best is not good enough.

* * *

A few days later, after school, Brett walked down the hallway with slow footsteps and a hammering heart.

He wanted to drag this moment out as much as possible. The 'before' to what would surely be a terrible, heart-wrenching 'after.'

Mr. Schue had posted the list of this year's Glee Club. And there was still a tiny but powerful tuft of hope inside of Brett that maybe, just maybe, he'd gotten in after all.

He reached the list.

His eyes scanned the names hungrily…

…And came up empty.

Because he wasn't on it. Because, after the list of names of the returning members, the only new person was some girl named 'Marley Rose.'

Yeah, Marley Rose.

Even her name spoke of beauty, of things that smelled good and pure. But Brett could never be perceived that way; he "smelled homeless," after all.

He was a joke, and that was all he was ever going to be.

With slumping shoulders and rapidly blinking eyes, he turned away from the list, ready to go on with his sorry life.

But a vaguely familiar, female voice made him stop in his tracks.

"What? How could I not have made it? I put everything in that audition!"

Brett pivoted on his heel and cocked his head inquisitively at a short African-American girl with a burst of black curls. She wore colorful clothes and a deep frown etched into her face.

When she noticed him staring at her, her eyebrows jumped upward in recognition. "Hey! I know you! You auditioned before I did."

Brett gulped down the lump forming in his throat and willed away the blush starting to sear his skin. He wished he could just forget about that audition forever, or erase it from ever having happened in the first place. "Um, yeah," he said. "I'm Brett." Well, at least he was sober and able to not accidentally say 'Stoner Brett' again. That was a step forward, right?

"Hey, Brett," the girl said, offering a friendly smile and an outstretched hand. "I'm De'wanda."

A shy smile stole up Brett's freckled face. He slipped his hand into hers and shook; it was a strangely formal introduction for two seventeen year olds, and yet it felt… warm. It felt like he was accepting something more than just a handshake.

When they released each other's hands, a light bulb flashed above Brett's shaggy-red-haired head. "Hey! You're the one who played that rockin' Techno music, right?"

De'wanda grinned. "Yeah, that was me. I practiced for _days _on that routine! But you wouldn't believe the rude, judgmental expressions on their faces while I was doing it." Her grin dimmed considerably as a mixture of anger and sadness flitted through her dark eyes.

Despite himself, Brett chuckled. It felt foreign, this actually _mirthful_ sound scratching from deep in his throat, spilling past his smiling lips. But foreign in the best possible way. "Yeah, they didn't look too impressed with my audition, either."

De'wanda's mouth dropped open. "Whoa, really? What's up with them? I overheard your rap, and I thought it was _sick_. I would totally drop some moves to that."

Brett's eyes brightened, heart soared. He did a little bounce on his tiptoes, a grin crinkling the edges of his cheeks. "Thanks, man! It's called 'Busters Get Popped.'"

"Ooh, I like that," De'wanda said. "Hey! Maybe you could teach it to me? We could make a real cool dance to it together or something."

"Um, yeah," Brett said, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic. "That'd be, like, yeah! Great!"

De'wanda chuckled at this white boy's hyper exuberance. "What lunch do you have?"

"First block."

De'wanda smiled at that and nodded her head to send her thick curls bobbing. "We have the same one. I'm actually new here, so I don't have that many friends yet. You seem pretty cool. Do you mind if I sit with you at lunch?"

She may as well have asked him 'do you mind if I give you one million dollars?' Only her question was far more lucrative than that measly amount. Because De'wanda was offering Brett the richest and most beautiful thing in the world: Friendship.

Brett nodded vigorously – so vigorously, in fact, that De'wanda laughed and thought his head may go flying off his shoulders – and said, "Hell yeah, dude, that sounds _awesome!_"

De'wanda held out her elbow. "Care to walk me to the parking lot?"

"Yeah, like, sure," Brett said, slipping his elbow into hers. And for the first time in his entire life, he felt like he belonged. He felt accepted, wanted.

He felt _worthy_.

They fell into step together down the hallway and fell into easy conversation shortly after.

"_Mmm,_" De'wanda leaned in and took a loud whiff of Brett. His entire body stiffened, heart stopping for a moment before picking up again in dreadful overtime.

_Oh no, _he thought. _Not again. Not another 'homeless' comment._

"You smell real good, boy," De'wanda said, "Like pine trees. What cologne do you wear?"

The warmest of smiles leapt up Brett's mouth, flashing teeth and eliciting a pleasantly surprised chuckle. His heart beat at a joyful pace. "Actually, it's some new deodorant I just got. It's forest-scented."

"Well, it smells really nice," De'wanda said. "Like a million bucks."

And as Brett exited the school with his new – and first – best friend and strolled on the sidewalk of a sunny day, for the first time in a long time, he _felt _like a million bucks.

As they walked together, a thought struck him. A warm realization that made all the pain he'd gone through suddenly worth it:

Maybe life doesn't always work out the way we plan.

Maybe sometimes it works out even better.


End file.
